Tale of the White Injun
by ColDrMrSirHiggsAbernathy
Summary: In the streets of Columbia he was known as the False Shepherd. Years before, he was the White Injun... A short one-shot focused on Booker Dewitt's involvement at Wounded Knee.


**_AUTHOR'S NOTE: This one-shot focuses on Booker Dewitt's experiences at Wounded Knee, many years before he will take a perilous journey through a city in the sky to wipe away his debt. _**

**_Read on, and I hope you like it. _**

_**DISCLAIMER: This fiction is adapted from characters and situations from the video game Bioshock Infinite. All characters and situations are property of Irrational Games and 2K Games.**_

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**_TALE OF THE WHITE INJUN_**

**_ 1_**

A chilling December day in South Dakota…the creek is silent and unmoving; beside it, cabins and teepees stand erect- containing small bands of Sioux, having been moved by US Army officials from other lands. All is calm, but it dares to say all is _too_ calm. The Indians' faces are rough, weathered by the cold and the trials of recent months- in equality are the Army men's faces… they may not have the darkened hue of the folk of which they keep a close eye, but they are just as roughened. Among these men is one of their youngest troop, a 16-year-old boy…he stood idle by a horse. "Corporal! These _red men_ we have in our midst- aren't they the unhappiest looking sonsabitches? They fight like savages, and yet they lie restricted in our domain." The man speaking is one Cornelius Slate, a captain of the 7th Calvary. He was many years older than the boy, and evidently had seen many a fight in his post. Slate spoke with a proud and boisterous disposition; his bearded mustachioed mouth upturned, and appeared battle ready as one hand gripped his saber. "I with my other men are keeping a watch on Chief Big Foot. The fellow is ill, and it is best he doesn't die unless a scuffle breaks out." The young man glanced at Slate. He did not respond.

"Say, Corp— oh, before I continue, what is your full title?"

"Dewitt. First name's Booker." The young man says. For a 16 year old, his voice was quite gruff.

"Ah. Booker. Only 16, and you've already gone up the ranks! Been in any skirmishes?"

"A couple."

"Well, these Indians are quite troublesome. I suggest you keep your trigger finger prepared, young man."

Booker chuckled slightly, and returned to his previous silence as he stood by his horse.

"The dark is coming on soon. I suggest you get some shuteye, Corporal. I'll be off now."

Slate left Booker's sight. Dewitt was now alone, silhouetted against the quickly blackening winter sky. Sleep took over, and the young man lay down on a bedroll, placed upon the snow-covered plains.

**_2_**

"Good god! Goddamn red bastard wouldn't give up his gun! Something's gone off! To arms! To arms!"

Bullets blazed through the air, and the shouts and orders of military men could be heard. _Something had happened._ The fiery crackle of a gunshot awoke Booker, and in a swift movement he grabbed his rifle. Just some 20 feet away young Corporal Dewitt could see Captain Slate hacking away at a Sioux Indian, his revolver having been ready to fire at Cornelius's chest.

"Aid me in battle, Corporal! Your moment of truth has arrived!"

All of a sudden, a young Indian raced across the grass unarmed, attempting to escape the chaos. In his desperation he ran into a cavalry officer, pushing him to the ground. Dewitt witnessed this and took down the fleeing individual in one clean shot to the head. At once a man tackled Booker from behind, grimacing with anger as the blade of knife was poised to plunge into Dewitt's back-

"Shit!" In a rapid-fire pace two rounds were emptied into the assailant, followed by anguished screams.

Booker roared in an almost inhuman voice, and after freeing the knife from the man's hand, he proceeded to stab him in the face, finishing with a scalping.

"Savage! Savage! Keep it up, boy!" Slate said from afar, climbing upon his horse.

The sound of mountain gunfire erupted, and smoke began to fill the quickly bloodying landscape.

Dewitt was now fully aware of the situation he was in, and went for the next kill. In the midst of pandemonium a group of three Indians, frightened out of their wits and attempting to salvage rifles from the corpses of two dead US soldiers, came across the young Corporal. In this state, Booker looked as he had just slaughtered an entire army- his uniform was stained with fresh blood; his knife covered in a coat of red, his eyes stern and intense.

With nary a word coming from his mouth, Booker fired upon the middle Indian, followed by the thud of his body upon the plains. The others who witnessed this tried to flee Dewitt's sight, but this escape was futile as the Corporal swiftly walked over and slit their throats, one-by-one. He once again removed "trophies" from his victims.

Booker walked over to a tent, and peered inside to see a family-a man, woman, and a child- huddled together. They did nothing to rid of Dewitt's presence, and just stared as he observed them. He immediately saw that the man, presumably the father of the child and the spouse of the woman, was holding a pistol, partially hidden by a cloak hung over his shoulders.

It was at this moment that Dewitt was at a standstill… should he spare the man, thus sparing his family of grief and pain resulting from his death? But at the same time he saw that he had a rebellion to quell- his duty was to keep watch and keep the peace… he had to do what he believed he had to do.

He silently outstretched a hand and took the Indian by the collar, dragging him out of his refuge and onto the desolate plain. Remarkably, the prisoner made no protest: he simply hung his head low, and at the same time dropped his pistol onto the ground.

He awaited death.

Booker saw to it that he die discreetly, and stabbed him once deep in the abdomen. For this one, he didn't see it fit to take a trophy.

For one long chaotic hour, man was pitted against man and rifle fire was exchanged beside Wounded Knee creek. In the midst of the fight man, woman and child were killed-and Booker continued his combat with any man that got in his way, rewarding him with a new fresh scalp.

At last, the action died down, and many bodies were what was left of the massacre. Booker along with his fellow soldiers now were tasked to disposing of the corpses, and Cornelius Slate saw in a bag he had amassed quite a collection of scalps:

"Goddamn, boy! I see you were paid handsomely—a damned white Injun, I must say!" He laughed as he went to pick up a revolver from a table situated in a tent.

Booker just nodded his head without any emotion in his face, and went to drag a body out of the snow.

"Snow's is starting to come in heavy. We best get all of these red men out of here before they get buried." Cornelius said.

** EPLILOGUE**

_**JANUARY 8th, 1891.**_

10 days have passed since the incident at Wounded Knee. I was honorably discharged on the 4th of this month.

I'm heading to New York, going to start fresh.

Good luck to myself.

_**Dewitt**_


End file.
